


Slam

by L_Orange21



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Crushes, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, Pining, Side-Project, Work In Progress, irregular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Orange21/pseuds/L_Orange21
Summary: The events of Bahrain reprise the events of old, the loss of Charles' family and friends; but it also marks something new, his journey to true happiness.This essentially is meant to cover real-life struggles of what someone in a sport like F1 would go through if they were gay and what having a relationship would be like, so having to conceal it from the outside, and what happens when they decide to take the first step and come out; when the sport gets its first LGBT members and how it evolves and adapts as a result.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	1. The full new year gift (Refined)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for even clicking on this it means a lot.
> 
> Important: So this story is a W.I.P and a side project that I'm doing alongside my main fic (The Start of Something Old series). To try and experiment and see what works and what doesn't.  
> Charles and Max have an established acquaintanceship but Charles recently developed a crush and he's trying to navigate his way around life with as little contact with him as possible as a result. But there's a point where Charles talks to him anyway... and you get the drift of where it's going.
> 
> I don't really know how long this will be or how long I'll be writing it for, I know what things and topics I want to write and talk about, but this really is about seeing what situations work, why they work and improving my writing style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is starts in the night/morning of Bahrain)  
> I didn't really know how far I wanted to go with the scene, I'm not really comfortable nor experienced with writing smut or the likes, especially like this, so in the end, I really didn't go that far but I like the end result and I hope you do too.  
> (Just as a warning this is a dream sequence)

Charles awoke to a persistent knock on the door that rumbled through his limbs that stood eagerly by the door of his hotel room.

A meadow of butterflies and birds swiftly ascended in each extremity of his body, all verging to the same point. His gut. A shudder of suspense, ever-present - fingers quivering, heart trembling. Charles' body ridden with inexplicable nerves, preparing for something he was, for now, completely oblivious to.

The mere touch of the metal handle against his fingers was enough to cause an indescribable sharpness to run up his spine. 

Charles, breathless as he opened the door, exposing an obscurely looking Max that hastily filled the gap. Dressed up in a coral shirt that snaked between an untied Red Bull jacket.

Charles' jaw slackening, relaxing at the only normal thing he'd seen or felt since he woke up. That was until a hot hand of abruption stretched around his wrist leading him forward towards the Dutch driver, yanking Charles out of any thoughts and refocusing them all to the contact around his hand. 

"Max? What are you doing?" He muttered out, crippled with confusion and fatigue.

"Don't talk," Max whispered, before taking a stride towards him, moving the pressure from around his hand to around his waist. 

Looking at him with his seaside eyes in a way Charles had never experienced before.

"I thought you-" Until a sudden - immediate feeling of euphoria gauging at his mouth, seizing control over it. A pair of Lips. Max's lips, to be exact. Every fantasy he continually had; every suppressed craving Charles had envisioned - contented with one moment. A moment he'll never forget, a moment so surreal, and so inexplicable it will sear into a tape for him to replay over and over. Strong icy hands, grasping the sides of his face as if he was a saviour, deepening the kiss even further.

Further.

The loud pump of blood in his ears, feeling the nervous sweat pile up in the pits of his top. Melting. Shrinking under the touch. Max gasped, moving away to catch his breath, closing the door and swapping positions with Charles.

"Wh-" Cut short again. This time by Max's hands pushing Charles' shoulders to the door causing a heavy thud. "You're-". Kiss. 

"Shhhh," the Dutch voice whispered, placing a finger onto Charles's lip, massaging the area lewdly. Releasing a silenced moan from the Monegasque. "Don't worry about me, Charlie," 

Suddenly, the icy palms writhed beneath his crimson shirt. Running traces of flame over his abs and stomach inducing a wave of happiness and ecstasy, that only seemed to grow fiercer until the clothes surrounding his torso were hoisted away and above his head exposing the quivering mess beneath.

Charles convulsed his head back as he savoured the torrent of zeal, but it never met the lumber of the door. Instead, the door he leant against twisted into a veil of silvery cotton. His head hitting a pillow. The Dutchman that grasped onto his body coiling into a blanket of fever and dread. The kitchen - now an expanse of black. The sound of their collective moans, replaced by the alarm on his phone that was swiftly silenced.

"Fuck!" he shouted into the surrounding air. Slamming sweaty fists of heat into the mattress beneath him.

"N-not another one," he said to himself out loud, now mumbling melancholically rather than the heated shout of before, his heart draining of the emotion that filled it mere seconds ago. Empty. Breathless. Only one drop of emotion left in his heart. An immortal sorrow, one of isolation, anger, and humiliation. A humiliation that even for a second he thought the dream was real. But he should've learnt by now. It's never going to happen. There will never be a day where he wakes up to another man's arms or a day he could go outside holding someone's hand, especially not Max's hand. Definitely not Max's. 

Max would never spare him a thought, a look, a touch. He was yet another straight guy that he'd developed a crush on, in fact, it's happened enough times that Pierre had devised an apparently 'revolutionary' strategy for situations like this: Stay away from him as much as possible; spend some time to get away and hope the feelings magically vanish. Let's just say it was never very effective, nor revolutionary, and even Charles, especially Charles, could admit that.

Inevitably, he'd have to face the feelings head on - his heart would twinge of torture once more and he'd ultimately develop another unattainable crush but he could always hope it won't come to that. He could always hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, it means a lot. I do love to know what you think so if you want, leave a comment, I love being able to get feedback and it gives me tons of extra motivation to see you enjoying it.  
> Edit: Spice added :) Hope you like the updated version of this, new chapter out soon.


	2. My first time writing a race sequence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bahrain race, and god, is it dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, you read that title right, this is my first ever time writing a race and I'll admit, it was a bit scary especially with such a big one like this years Bahrain. Not once, in 3 fics and a collective 40K words I never once wrote a race while writing about F1, yeah, I know.

Affixed in his mundane carbon seat - car primed and ready. Confident yet restless. Going through his tumble of notions in his head, thinking about what he was about to do, the danger of what he's about to do. Everything is on the line here, his promise to Jules and Anthoine, his promise to the fans, to always try his best, to always put in 110%. This is the moment it can all blow. A risk of repeating Turkey; a risk of letting everyone down. Everything he's worked for about to endure the ultimate test.

Starting in twelfth place, not optimal, yet not terrible alas it was a grid spot the Scuderia became quite acquainted with over the last several months. Charles would have to hope those in front will fuck up if he was to get anything substantial, especially with the pit stops here. Nothing less than two - at least two times the crew can screw it up - again.

About a minute.

Starting on the hards, maybe he could wheedle his way onto the one-stop strategy. Just maybe. It'd be ambitious, but then again, that's why it isn't the primary strategy, only something they can wish magically befalls.

30 seconds.

The abundance of crew - pulling away from the car; removing the coat like material that blanketed the tyres. Masses of people that once stood overlooking the cars swarmed over by the edge of the tarmac. Gaping at the cars. Looking for any mistakes, anything they missed. Charles' crew, staring at his; giving him a definitive thumbs up. The all-clear.

Formation lap.

Palpitations of anxiety clouding his hearing, the pressure on him mounting on his shoulders. Taking each corner slow and smooth and his body erupted in quick tidal waves of emotion. Beads of sweat presenting on his enclosed face. Legs tingling, fingers numb. _It's going to be impossible._

"Good luck, Charles. We're still on for strategy A. Two-stop. Seb in front and Stroll behind are on the Mediums. It's going to be rough, so take it easy on the tyres," The voice in his ear buzzed, breaking his thoughts.

"I know," He snapped back quickly, but his engineer had no time to reply to his blunt remark. The last driver pulled on to the grid. It was time.

_It's time._

3

2

1

Off the line and the pink Tracing Point is already coming up his inside, out-speeding him, soon followed by a bright orange Mclaren. This was going not going well in the slightest, but there was no time to think, only to drive.

Turn 1. Charles brakes late, doing a Ricciardo - swinging his car around the outside of both the Mclaren and Racing Point and even his teammate - recovering his lost places and then some, a brilliant move, well-executed and the perfect start.

A few moments to crack smirk of accomplishment and promptly followed by turn 2, a simple right-hander, ideally timed braking and he's secured his spot in the points. The grin, growing even further underneath the helmet, clutching onto the wheel with pure determination and desperation.

All of his doubts before the race meaningless - this was everything he could've dreamt for in this position. Not only could he get into the top 8 on the first lap but he could go on so much further on this set of tyre than those in front of him. He could actually do a Pierre and get a podium If the race carried on like this. Finally, able to amend the mistakes in Turkey. Finally, get that cloud of misery to release its last drop, and ultimately have a peaceful night for the first time in weeks, proud of what he'd done. He can't let go of a chance like this. He _can't._ A simple chance to redeem himself; that was until **it** happened.

A quake of warning reverberated throughout the entire car, grasping Charles in dismay and concern. "Have we got damage? The fuck happened?" He asked on the radio quickly, the pain eking its way into his voice. He can't have this now. Everything was so perfect. No points. No redemption.

Charles quickly looked in his left mirror, looking to see for the start of the end of his race. Nothing. No car. No Racing Point. No Mclaren. 

Right mirror.

Snapping his neck desperately, the Mclaren was there filling his view. But so was something else.

An **inferno.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit random, and I shouldn't be really be writing a note like this, but screw it:
> 
> I feel this chapter has elements of everything I've tried so far. It's experimental. It's a lot more focused on the story/events and what this Charles would be thinking before a race. And what I'm trying to say in a way is I'm- well, I still feel new to writing fics. Sure, I've done short stories before for my studies, even sophisticated description work, character studies and the lot. But never have I tried to put them all together in a long structured novella, and it's been a lot harder than I could've imagined.  
> I'm astounded by the response I got; even when I felt I posted something flawed you kept reading. You're here now after all, and, to be honest, this has been one of the few things that have kept me happy and motivated during lockdown, and I just want to say thank you for sticking with it, even when I haven't been able to.


	3. Ravaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grosjean's crash at Bahrain, and the memories that get provoked during the red flag.

Branches of amber. Sparkling across the sky like a portrait, leaves of crimson with a grey centre filling Charles' entire mirror. 

Rising further and further, as if a bomb had gone off; each branch, like a vision of his life. One of the branches, his past: Jules and Anthoine. Their story, the time he spent with them; the time he wished back. 

Another branch, the feeling of perpetual guilt melting the insides of his stomach; nothing left but a hole. A feeling that would get permanently nested inside him, in the corner of his mind.

A lighter branch, a potential future. One where he was world champion; the face of Ferrari, and an idol to all future drivers. Happy, able to go out hand in hand with whoever he wanted. One where he didn't care what people thought, driving for himself, not just others. Not because he felt indebted, a destiny he craved.

And then a darkened branch, a withered future. One of eternal regrets and let downs; a flop, an example of what not to be to all drivers. Miserable, unable to stand the sight of anyone he liked. Caring too much of what people thought, continuously nervous and anxiety-ridden. Having failed his family and the memories, he tried to keep alive. 

Another branch. The final branch, a choice of what life he wanted to live, whether he wanted to keep hold of his past. To hold on to the memory would create a life of living in guilt and shame; never recovering from their loss; never moving on; throwing everything away for a life of anxiety and despair. The other - a life of liberation, to let go of the past, to let them finally rest. To not constantly feel indebted and fulfil his acclaimed potential; to be the best driver on the grid. A choice he wasn't ready for. Not yet.

"Red flag! R- flag!" a distant, quiet, fuzzy voice rumbled, freeing Charles from the freeze, the world resuming around him, looking away from the mirror. "Come into the pits,"

"What happened?! Who crashed?" Charles wailed into the helmet, arms trembling, every memory he had ever suppressed spewing to the surface like a dormant volcano.

"It was Grosjean... It was Grosjean Charles," his engineer said, clearly the calmest out of the two of them.

"Is he okay? Is he out?" Charles continued to wail as he followed the others to the pits. 

"We don't know," the engineer replied. Striking a knife through his stomach and twisting it for good measure. It was only now that he noticed the wretched smell making its way into his nose. Swathes of fumes filling his nose like a lethal aftershave. The smell of Death. His skin tingling; everything cold. Numbness spreading everywhere, the wheel fading away at his fingertips - unable to feel anything but sorrow. Thighs next; feeling like his head was drifting away from his body, in a void.

"Just get back in the pits, calm down, Charles. I'm sure he's fine,"

Another life devoured.

*

Charles pulled the headrest up and over from behind his neck. Carelessly throwing it onto the floor, running to the desks. To the TVs. 

"Is he okay??" he called out loudly, running past the semi-circle of crew, gaining an unobstructed view of the screen. But that question was met with the same answer as before. When someone mumbled in his ear next to him, they still didn't know. And then they showed the replay. Charles saw it all unfold more times than he could count. Replaying it over and over and over. They all pulled out of turn 3, then suddenly there was a blundering inferno directly behind where his car was. It was too much. Quicker than he came in, he ran out. Seeking an escape. Out into the fields of small rooms behind the garage, not stopping, going out into the paddock. Running as fast as he could, getting away from everyone until he couldn't run anymore, collapsing onto the hard concrete ground. To his left and right, the deserted hospitality buildings for each team, a place he was familiar with and felt comfortable. Leaning onto a fancy lamp post on the side of the wide path for support; the feelings brewing inside him, no noise or movements to distract him now, only his thoughts and his feelings, and he couldn't hold them back by himself. 

-

Charles needed someone to lean on; he needed that future to come back; he didn't want to care. He wanted to feel confident and be bold in his actions, but something was stopping him. Everywhere Charles went he felt this massive pressure, unable to act freely, always having to double-check what he is doing or is about to say. 

It's what stopped him from letting anyone get close to him. Except there was one person, one person who he was close to, one to whom that rule didn't apply, and that was Pierre. But why was that? And where the fuck was he right now? His best friend wasn't here right now. His best friend hadn't texted him. He knew exactly how Charles was feeling, exactly how bad this was and what memories this brought back; but where was he right now? Nowhere. If it were Charles in Pierre's shoes, he would've already shot off floods of texts. He would've searched the entire circuit for him and not stop until he did. Yet Pierre hadn't even bothered to do something as simple as a text. Not any of his so-called 'friends' had talked to him, not Lando, not George, and not even Seb. None of them texting to tell him if Romain was okay or not, none of them looking and none of them caring that he was here, slumped against a lamppost in his race suit; filled with sorrow and grief. In a place people had seen him go, yet nobody had looked, nobody was looking, and nobody cared-

"Charles," a voice said, a croaky strained voice, coming from behind him, the Ferrari pit area. But it wasn't the voice of Pierre and not anyone he knew from Ferrari. 

It was someone **_else_** _._ Someone Charles recognised. Shit. Fuck. Why is he here? 

"Are you okay?" the reassuring voice pestered, crouching on the floor in front of Charles, facing him. A bright tug on his dry lips. Smiling seductively. Stubble longer since the last time Charles saw him. An extra blemish next to the side of his eyebrow. That nasty cap that usually covered his head - nowhere to be found. Hair longer, hot, messy, tumbling down a shiny forehead. Beautiful. But Charles instinctively whipped his head away. He couldn't bear the look of Max's face, not after last night. Every second of looking at him, the ghosts around his abs and chest hardened. Growing stronger, sensual, making sure he doesn't forget. The pair of luscious lips, the feeling of them meeting his. The strong icy hands. 

He can't let Max see it. He can't let Max notice the feelings. He faked a nod of appreciation, sweating drips of embarrassment, awkwardness and melancholy as he looked back into great gates of navy charm that sat either side of the Dutch nose trying to ignore the feelings as much as possible.

"Is Romain okay?" Charles croaked, hesitantly keeping his eyes on the Dutchman.

"He's alright. They say he's only got minor burns on his hands," Max said calmly, as if the words had no weight, moving to slouch next to the Monegasque.

"Really?!? Holy fuck, that's amazing Max," Charles said, the pressure on his heart releasing, a giant smile of relief showing on his face, leaning up in delight. "I really thought we'd lost him for a second,"

"Yeah. I'll be honest, I didn't think he was getting out of that when I saw the video," Max said, the sadness creeping into his voice. "You saw it happen though, didn't you?"

"N-no, not really. I saw the fire in my mirror, but I didn't see it happen," Charles weakly said, looking back to the floor while inconspicuously trying to shuffle away from Max. "It was- bad... to say the least,"

"Are you okay now, though?" Max questioned putting a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from moving away, making Charles jolt his head back in reflex. "I know what happened with... you know,"

"Yeah, I-I'm... okay-ish now," Charles tried to say, hesitating, stumbling over his words as he got lost in the pools of hope just like he did in his dreams. Feeling warm from the relief - safe with Max. Alone here in a place where everything was stressfree, a place of relaxation, an escape; the future he wished for. _A future with Max._ But that future was destroyed with one glance. The Dutchman breaking the eye contact, peering away towards the dim pit area, people with Red bull gear standing against the wall.

"If you say so, Charles," Max said sarcastically, standing up with a sigh. "Gotta go- Ah Also, I almost forgot, Pierre lost his phone and he's been grilling everyone; trying to find out where you went, so when you get a second go talk to him," Max continued, chuckling under his breath. "See you after the race?"

"Yeah, see you after the race,"


End file.
